Coffee Break 9

I suspect many will disagree with how I categorized this story. I don't feel it fits well into any of the categories perfectly.

The sex depicted is hetero and everyone is over 18.

LarryInSeattle bears the burden of dealing with my mistakes. Give him a hand and let me know, politely please, what works and what doesn't.

I hope you enjoy the story.

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As the elevator's strangely sexy robotic voice intoned the passing floors, I tried hard not to get my hopes up. She wasn't there every day, not even most days. She might not even be working today. Or maybe, facing a meeting deadline, she was still at her desk, foregoing her morning break. I hadn't seen her yesterday. It wasn't impossible to imagine that I'd never see her again. People move, take new jobs, or change their habits, nothing is constant.

The ever helpful elevator announced we had reached the mezzanine and that she (the elevator had a female voice) was "going down". The bitch is a tease. I joined the crush of bodies exiting the elevator. Like some primordial slime mold, we split into three tendrils. Some headed for the part of the plaza reserved for the smokers in the building. Another group arced toward the bakery, which my scale had been telling me to avoid, and the largest, the tendril of bodies I moved with, headed toward Starbucks.

My heart, already pounding, kicked up a notch. She was in the line waiting for her coffee, or chia or whatever it was she drank.

The Starbucks was well acquainted with the mass of caffeine freaks that surged out of the elevators this time of day. They were staffed and ready. Many of us, longtime regulars, had our drinks waiting. I quickly made it up to the counter, touched my phone to the credit card reader, and was rewarded with my small dark-chocolate-skim-mocha-no-whip. I knew where she sat. The tables were strangely unoccupied, despite the throngs of people who a short time earlier had crowded the area. The majority returned to their offices, to sip and browse or sip and work at their desks.

She did not. She always walked around to the left, to a narrow curved tail of the mezzanine that overlooked the atrium and only had room for two tables. There were plenty of open tables but my brain was on fire. I had considered approaching her since I first spotted her weeks ago but more recently my interest and courage had been sparked enough for me to take action.

I ought to pause for a moment and make something perfectly clear. I'm not a stalker. I had certainly noticed her. I was certainly interested in her. And I had recently decided to make my interest known but if rebuffed, that would be the end of it. Oh, no doubt she'd linger in memory and fantasies but I would not push it. I would offer but I would not pursue.

"Hi, mind if I join you?" I asked but taking a seat before she had time to reply. She looked more startled than annoyed. I took that as a good sign. "You work at Massey?" Massey, a title company, was the primary occupant of the floor she exited the elevator on.

"Huh? Um, no. Peabody's," she replied. Her face remained free of irritation, not at all the look mine would have shown if a stranger plopped their ass down at my table in a mostly empty room. Peabody's was a small independent publisher that had to be a pet project of someone with a lot of money. There was no way they made enough in publishing to cover the rent, much less employees.

"Cool. You a writer?"

"No. Copy editor."

The spark that lead to me sitting here occurred earlier in the week. I was behind her at Starbucks. She had an e-reader in hand. I wasn't trying to be nosy but I found myself reading over her shoulder. She was reading a smut novel. Torrid prose, lots of sighs and moans, the type of book my mother called "bodice rippers". My mom had had a stack of them that she would never let me read. I was amused that a woman who turned up her nose at a French kiss on one of her soap operas enjoyed reading smutty romance novels. As my eyes skimmed the page I realized whatever Ms. 10th Floor was reading, it was a step beyond a romance novel. My eyes hopped from "cock" and "thrusting manhood" to "pussy". This was straight-up porn.

"Peabody's is a publisher, right?" I asked after taking a sip of my mocha. She had already turned to continue staring out over the atrium and contented herself with a nod of the head.

"You like working there?"

She shrugged. Her hair was a deep red. The light streaming into the atrium seem to get caught in it, making it glow. Her skin was fair, as you would guess with a red-head. She was one of the lucky ones, however because, other than a pinch of freckles sprinkled across her nose, her pale skin was flawless. Half of her face was in sunlight, half in shadow. The eye in the sunlight sparkled blue with flares of fire spaced around the iris. The shadowed eye appeared subdued by comparison. Her eyes peered out at the world from behind old-fashioned cat eye red framed glasses. The red was a darker hue than her hair. Her eyes were such a bright blue, if not for the glasses, I would have assumed she wore colored contacts.

Her lips were full and unadorned with gloss or lipstick. They fit her face and nose. Her lips were neither pursed nor opened. She did not lick at them nervously. They just rested there, beneath her nose, waiting for their next assignment. Her nose had the teeniest little uptick at the tip that kept it from appearing severe. The red hair was coiled in a tight bun at the back of her neck, as it had been every day I had seen her over the past few months.

If I were a casting director looking for a woman to play the secretly hot chick underneath the librarian exterior, I would sign this gal on the spot. It was that juxtaposition of staid and hot that had first caught my attention. Later, it was her self-contained air. She moved as if she was unaffected by the world around her. I found that fascinating and the urge to pierce that containment was irresistible.

Her attire fit with the hair and glasses, understated, professional, not flashy but not dowdy. Her blouse was a simple silk top she wore over a camisole that rendered her bra invisible. Her breasts appeared to be average, the blouse being high enough that it was impossible to assess her cleavage. A simple pencil skirt and fashionable low-heeled pumps completed the outfit. The only hint of flash came from the pale rose stockings and their subtle floral pattern.

My attire, on the other hand, flirted with inappropriate for the office. If not for the fact that I ran my own company, it would be inappropriate. I'd fire anyone else for dressing as I was. That I would parade myself around my employees in such a fashion was a measure of how deeply smitten I was by this young woman. I had spent a great deal of time in my closet that morning, regarding and then discarding most of my wardrobe.

I had settled for a top that was loose rather than tight. I wanted it loose enough that when I leaned toward her, she could see not only my breasts resting in a frilly black open cup bra, but my exposed nipples. The blouse, while not sheer, did not completely hide my naked nipples, even without leaning. My skirt? Now that was skin tight leather, too tight to mar with lines from a garter or thong. I wore stockings but they were hold ups that didn't need a garter. They were black fishnet with a rose stem and thorn pattern up the sides, total slutville. As were my shoes, stiletto heels my husband referred to as "fuck me pumps".

Sandra, my receptionist, had nearly snorted coffee out her nose when I walked into the office that morning. I said "good morning" as if I always dressed like a top-notch hooker for work. Sandra was cute. She didn't fascinate me as my Starbucks friend did but she was cute enough to have starred in more than one fantasy. I've been flirting with the idea of offering gym memberships to my small, hard-working, staff. I would love to see Sandra nude, hair wet, water cascading over breasts that are no doubt still youthfully pert. I suppressed a smile until I was past her desk, hoping against hope that she was watching my ass move under the leather of my skirt. The leather had been a difficult choice. Another material would have been more revealing but I wasn't planning on wearing panties. I chose the leather hoping it would be less likely to reveal my wetness, should the morning develop as planned.

As I sat there, staring at the side of her face, it was clear to me I had made the right choice. Whether she told me to "fuck off" or simply got up and walked away, my cunt was already soaking. After shrugging away my question, she had remained quiet. Her face betrayed nothing. I took a breath and plunged in.

"You wouldn't believe the morning I've had," I began as I rested my elbows on the table, staring at her over the top of my mocha. "Morning hell, what a week. I think it's the heat. Did you grow up here?" I didn't wait for an answer. "I can't remember it being this hot this early in the summer before. My husband and I are refurbishing an old house, out on East Snell. It's a gorgeous old Queen Anne but right now it is more old than gorgeous. Sometimes I don't think we'll ever be done. It's one thing after another. And my husband, like most men, insists everything has to be perfect. The original switches were push-buttons so we have to have up-to-code-modern switches that look like turn-of-the-century brass plate push-button switches. He wants the lamps to have the old butterfly switches. Ever seen one? You rotate it and it makes a loud click and voila, light. Anyway, the work drags on and on.

"Of course the place doesn't have central air. We still haven't figured out how to do that without destroying the ambience of the place. It's not too early to think about it, though. Now's the time to get the duct work done. At the moment, we're trying to avoid heat stroke by keeping all the windows that will open, open and running fans everywhere. Nights are the worst. Even after the sun sets the air seems heavy with heat. You're so tired your eyes burn but you lie there, sweating and unable to sleep."

I could see her eyes beginning to glaze over and decided it was time to grab her attention. I set my mocha down and leaned across the table, pressing my breasts together with my arms to make sure my top fell forward. Then, even a casual glance on her part would have her gazing at my nipples. I could feel them crinkle and perk up at the thought.

"We sleep in the nude," I told her in a conspiratorial whisper, as I had hoped that got her attention. Her eyes jerked to my face, down, up, and down. A faint blush of rose touched her cheek before she returned her gaze to the atrium windows. "Even then it's so hot but oh my God, is it heavenly when you roll over and your hot wet skin is kissed by the breeze from the fan?" I giggled, convincingly I thought, and dropping my voice even lower added, "If I turn slightly and bend my knees up, the fan will, for a moment in its oscillations, blow air right over my pussy. I have to tell you, I forget about needing to sleep and start to get horny.

"The breeze wafts over my pussy, over my belly and then across my breasts. Lord, how it makes my nipples ache. I just adore having my nipples played with and once I start thinking about it, I almost have to play with them." I giggled again and glanced around. "Although, playing with my nipples here would be a bit forward wouldn't it? I didn't have that worry this morning. I wet the index finger on each hand and rub them around my nipples and stop, forcing myself to wait, listening to that old fan creaking its way to one side and then waiting, aching for it to kiss my nipples. I imagine you can appreciate what sweet torture those few seconds of anticipation became.

"My whole body breaks out into goose bumps when the breeze touches my nipples. I can't stand it very long. I start to pinch and roll them between my thumb and fingers. Then tug at them, really tug and pinch them as I let the first touch of the breeze on the outside of my leg I let them go, let the singing throbbing nubs feel the cool breeze. By the time I start pulling one breast after another up to my mouth, my pussy is soaking wet. I can feel the sheet under my ass getting wet.

"I start to rub my clit, wondering if it's worth the trouble of getting up and getting my little joy button. That's what I call it anyway. It's tiny. You don't put in inside your cunt, you just touch it to your clit. Sometimes I use it and a dildo. I think a clit orgasm is different when it's just your clit compared to your clit and a big old cock or dildo in your snatch, don't you?"

I didn't expect an answer and I didn't get one. She continued to stare across the atrium but her eyes darted to my face and to my chest more and more frequently. I giggled again, trusting I'd know when I risked over doing it. Bra, camisole and top combined couldn't hide the fact her nipples were hard. I was careful not to stare.

"I can't believe I'm telling you this but shoot, I need to tell someone and I can't very well tell someone in my office can I? This morning, I decided to settle for a couple fingers in my snatch while I rubbed my clit. You see the problem though, right? With both hands busy I can't suck on my titties. I had almost given up, was almost ready to roll out of bed and get the damn dildo out of the drawer when I happened to glance at my husband. I guess maybe I was trying to gauge the risk of waking him. He seemed dead to the world. Thank God he's not a snorer.

"He was asleep but oh my Lord, his cock was not. It was jutting out over his belly like a springboard. I wish I'd brought my phone. You should see that man's cock. Jesus, how he ended up in finance and not doing porn is beyond me. I know you know how men lie. A ten-inch cock is a rare thing, even porn stars are usually around eight inches. But honey, I'm not a man and I'm not lying. His cock is eight and a half inches of the most beautiful hunk of man I personally have ever seen. It's an ur-cock; a damn idealized Greek vision of a cock. Well not really, did you know the reason all that Greek pottery from antiquity shows men with little baby dinkies is because the ancient Greeks thought a big cock was a mark of a barbarian, not a civilized man? No wonder they were always banging boys instead of their wives. Anyway, if the Greeks had applied their ideas of proportionality to cocks, my husband's is ideal. It's not so fat, it doesn't look like a fireplug. It's not so long that it looks like some sort of living lawn dart. No, I'm sure his cock length to cock circumference ratio describes a Golden Ratio of perfect cockhood.

"I don't know what he was dreaming about but he was rock hard. He's not cut and his foreskin wasn't pulled back all the way but even so, I could see his helmet was slick with precum. It had collected under the foreskin and was just beginning to gather into a large enough drop to fall to his belly. I looked at him closely then. 'Is he messing with me?' I wondered. Was he asleep or had he been spying on me playing with my nipples? He sure had one hell of a beautiful erection going for a dream.

"I studied him and studied. I have to tell you, he was asleep. I'm sure of it, sure of his breathing, sure of the looseness around his mouth, the way his head was rolled to one side. He was asleep. Asleep with a throbbing, wet cock and there I lay with an aching pussy begging to be stuffed full of something hard."

I took a sip of my mocha. I sat the cup down and casually began to massage one of my nipples through my blouse. Her eyes were no longer looking over the atrium. Her face was turned that way but her eyes followed the movement of my fingers as they plucked at my nipple through the thin fabric.

"I just had to taste him. We were both hot and sweaty but I wasn't worried. I like a man who smells like a man. I'm not talking about rank BO, just the heavy musk of man's crotch." As I spoke, I slipped my fingers inside my blouse. I could feel air on my nipple and new it was exposed, not only to my taunting fingers but to my companion's hungry gaze. "I didn't care if I woke him up but I hoped I wouldn't. I rolled to my knees and leaned over his belly. I had to turn my head to the side to get his cock in my mouth. I guess some women would think I'm not independent enough or feminist enough but I love sucking cock. I don't mind the taste of cum and, like I said, I love the smell of a man. My husband isn't into shaving his junk. His pubes are a mass of think black curls that capture his pheromones and holds them there just to get my motor racing.

"I ran my tongue under his foreskin, greedy for his precum, and then deep throated him, or almost anyway. Even after five years of practice, I can't get the whole thing down without choking. I love sucking his cock but that wasn't what I needed. I needed his cock in my cunt. End of story."

I smile inwardly as my companion wiggled in her chair. I moved my fingers to my other nipple.

"I straddled him, still trying not to wake him, wondering if my oral ministrations had woke him. If so, he was playing possum. As I straddled him, I grabbed that gorgeous hunk of cock and rubbed it around my clit. I could have got off just doing that but I needed more. I angled his cock upward, rubbed my slit over it a couple of times and then impaled myself on it.

"Oh my God, the feel of cock stretching my cunt is almost as good as an orgasm. I just sat there, all my weight on his thighs, letting his cock press against me, press against my cervix. I began to move my hips in circles. I swear I could feel his cock slide along the outside rim of my cervix. I pushed against him as hard as I could, moaning in frustration. He was big but I wanted more. I want to feel his cock pressing against my fucking bellybutton.

"I used one hand to bring a tit to my mouth and began to tongue and nip at my nipple. My other hand was slapping my clit. I'd stop and give a few fast jittery rubs and then go back to slapping it as I started to ride my man's cock. I forced myself to be careful. I didn't want his cock to slip out, didn't want to have to let go of my tit or my clit to re-insert him.

"The whole time he laid perfectly still. I can't believe he could still be asleep, not the way I was bouncing up and down on him, moaning like a crazy woman, completely forgetting all the windows were open and any neighbor, if awake and with an open window, could probably hear me. I moaned. I groaned. I panted "oh fuck" and "oh yeah" and "oh God". You know the usual. I wasn't trying to be quiet.

"I could feel myself getting close. I started smacking my clit hard enough to really make it sing. As I felt my orgasm begin to rip its way through my guts, I bit down on my nipple to keep from screaming. My pussy clenched and I slammed my ass down on Mark's thighs and started to writhe. As I did, Mark's cock erupted. I could feel my cunt swell with the force of his orgasm and then clinch, sending a gush of hot jizz out of my pussy and down his cock to cover his pubic hair in pussy juice and cum.

"My orgasm kept ricocheting inside me. Instead of fading, it kept growing, amplifying. I jerked off him and slid down his legs. I shoved the fingers of my right hand into my pussy and began to push my cervix back and forth, as if somehow I could unclog it or something and let my orgasm escape. Then I did something I rarely do after Mark has been fucking me. I gobbled up his slick cock and shoved it down my throat, one hand still digging inside my cunt. I choked but didn't stop. I didn't puke either. I pushed and something relaxed in my throat and I had him, finally had all of him. I bobbed my head in time to the rhythm of the fingers in my pussy. I felt like my orgasm was ripping me apart. I was almost sobbing around his cock. He filled my mouth. He'd never cum twice like that, not even getting soft inside before cumming again. Somehow that did the trick. All the ricocheting waves of my orgasm met in the center of my body and exploded out of me.